Dear Jimmy
by deanplaysguitarforcas
Summary: Dean is forced to have a pen pal— the last thing he wants, especially one from some religious school in Illinois. He writes to his pen pal, simply for a grade. Surprisingly, the boy writes back, introducing himself as Jimmy Novak. Dean begins to write, telling Jimmy of his moves, even wanting to tell him about his life. Maybe Jimmy understands a little more than he lets on.
1. Chapter 1

_**this is not done do not think it is done or else... there may be a crossroads deal involved... just kidding.. I don't have a soul. Read and review?**_

_**also I would like to say that this is a FIRST DRAFT. I WILL EXTEND THIS STORY AND GO INTO MORE DETAIL you know once I get the plot down and stop aggressively typing in bolded and italicized all caps. whoops. **_

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_Dean Winchester_ slid down in his seat. The sophmore English teacher was writing on the board, dreaded, dreaded words etched in chalk.

PEN PAL ASSIGNMENTS.

_Really? _Dean wanted to groan out loud. Did she think they were in second grade or something?

She turned to the class, beaming, like she'd bestowed a gift from God upon them. "All right, guys. Today we're finally going to get those pen pal assignments that I know you've all been so excited about!" Dean looked around. Nobody looked excited. Just tired and irritable. Probably from the heat.

Even February in California was hot. And annoying.

"So, each one of us is writing to someone from three different schools. One is Pontiac High, another is a nearby private academy, and the last is called St. James Catholic. All these schools are in Illinois."

Dean nearly snorted out loud. Illinois wasn't all Chicago. There was corn. A lot of it, and not a ton of people. And yeah, he knew from experience.

Dean tuned her out and tried to fall asleep on his desk, but even as his eyelids drooped, sleep refused to come, even overwhelmed by the heat. The little fans all over the room did nothing to muffle to flow of heat. Dean jumped when a piece of paper was slammed on his desk. He nearly fell out of his chair.

The teacher was glaring at him. "Mr. Winchester, sleep on your own time." Dean sat up, mumbling and stretching. He reluctantly grabbed the paper in front of him, read the name.

_Jimmy Novak,_ _St. James Catholic School._

Dread climbed into Dean's throat. Great. The _last _school he wanted, he got. He didn't _want _to write to some preppy douche who was full of himself. Of course, that's how they all were. Right?


	2. Chapter 2

_Dean got _his first letter about a week after that. He remembered it was a week because the healing skin where the paper had sliced still throbbed every now and then. The teacher handed out envelopes. She dropped a small blue one on Dean's desk. Dean's name was in a slanted scrawl, along with his school name and the address.

Dean's heart rose to his throat. He ripped open the envelope, pulled out a letter.

_Dear Dean, _

_My name is Jimmy Novak. I'm sixteen, and I like animals. There. That was required. I'm writing this in class, and my teacher isn't watching. This is definitely the most mortifying thing ever. I'm supposed to basically write some sort of girly diary or whatever and, I quote, "pour my soul out" to someone I have never met. What a wonderful education system. You know, sophomores are just trampling each other to do that. _

_And I'm supposed to ask you a question or something. Which is stupid. I had some girl for a "pen pal" last year and I asked her what her favorite color was and she got super offended and stopped writing. So not asking the questions here. Maybe I'll lie and say that I asked you if you like animals too, which sounds incredibly dim-witted._

_Even if you're about as excited for this as I am, would you please write me back so A, I don't fail English, and B, I can attempt to not look like a friendless loser. Thanks. –Jimmy Novak_

Dean actually laughed. This Novak guy sounded pretty cool for someone who attended a private Catholic academy. He could imagine some faceless guy writing this during a boring class. He didn't think you could slip that by in Catholic school, though. Didn't they hit you with a ruler or something?

Dean flicked the edge of the paper, playing with it. He actually was considering writing back. He wondered if he was starting to care about his grades or if it was because Jimmy asked him to. Probably the latter; he didn't give a rat's ass about his grades here or anywhere. It wasn't like he was going to college. If they had that kind of money, they probably wouldn't live in cheap, stained motel rooms, and wouldn't eat greasy diner food, and their dad wouldn't have to run credit cards scams, and just maybe wouldn't leave all the time. Dean didn't allow anger at his dad to stir; wasn't his fault hunts took so long.

Dean shoved his jumbled thoughts away, like a poorly woven mat, a failed creation of messiness and the wrong emotions. Maybe it was considered art; everything else was. Dean folded up Jimmy's letter, stuffed it back in the envelope. He hesitated.

Should he just throw it away? Never write back? Dean decided to give the guy a chance. One chance. He put his letter in his backpack just as the bell rang. Dean scrambled from his seat. He couldn't wait to finally leave, finally get back and just hang out with Sammy. Dean liked to think of it that way, just hanging out. Yeah, right. Just hanging out with a shotgun full of rock salt bullets and a bag full of knives. He wondered if Sam would be studying; Sam had really started to care about grading of late.

Dean slipped through the crowd, like a sea and each person was a wave. He stepped outside, where Sam was already waiting. The kid was getting taller and skinnier each day. Dean swore he must've grown two inches last night alone.

"Hey, Dean." "Hiya, Sammy. How was school?" They started walking along the sidewalk. Sam scowled. "Awful. Gary Burke got dared to shove my head in the toilet." "What? What'd you do? You want me to stab that little punk?" "I flushed his foot," Sam confessed. "It got stuck and they had to break the toilet." He looked at Dean.

Dean couldn't help himself. He started laughing, both he and Sam cracking up at the same time. He threw his arm over Sam's shoulder and pulled him closer, unable to stop laughing. When he finally did, he ruffled Sam's hair a bit and beamed at Sam, teeth flashing. "Way to go, Sammy," he joked. "That kid'll be called Flush Foot for the rest of his life." Sam smiled, a little embarrassed. "I didn't mean to, Dean. I just got angry." "I know, kiddo." Sam cleared his throat. "So, um, how was your day?"

Dean's thoughts flickered to the letter, ripping open the blue envelope, Jimmy's scrawl, his clumsily woven thoughts earlier. He swallowed. "It was fine," he replied. "Nothing really important."


	3. Chapter 3

_Dean crushed _his teeth into his raw lip. He'd read Jimmy's letter probably a hundred times, and he still didn't know how to respond. Like, _Here's your letter, never write to me again, _Dean thought, probably wouldn't go over so well, as he flipped over the letter, twisting it around in his hands as he sat on the motel room bed. It wasn't like he hated Jimmy. It just wasn't like him to do something like this. His dad would hate it. The door opened near him. "What are you reading?"

Dean shoved the letter into his pocket. "Mind your own business," Dean snapped at Sam. A smile yanked at the corner of Sam's lips. "Did you get a love letter?" Heat rushed to Dean's cheeks as Sam's words sculpted an image of a love letter from Jimmy. "No," he retorted. "Why would I get a love letter?" Sam shrugged his skinny shoulders. "'Cause Valentine's Day's in a week."

He sighed. "Sam, when have either of us gotten a Valentine? They're stupid." Sam's lighthearted gaze instantly darkened. "You mean, Dad says they're stupid. Because I wouldn't _mind _getting a Valentine." Dean stood up, and licked his lips, his nervous tic. "Sam, we're not having this discussion. It's not about Dad, okay? We've talked about this and-" "No!" Sam shouted. "You never _let _me talk about it, but you know it's true!" Dean rounded on his little brother. "Sam!"

Sam met his angry glare with a frosty look, one a lanky teenager shouldn't be capable of. Unless he was really, really pissed. Dean didn't want to think Sam was pissed at him over a fucking _Valentine_. Or at Dad. But he probably was; Sammy seemed to be having fits of anger over things a lot lately. "I'm going out," Sam hissed through gritted teeth. "With my _friends._" He turned around and opened the door.

"Wait. Sam! Sammy! You just got back and-" Sam turned, his look still cold and icy. "Well, isn't that what Dad does?" He slammed the door behind him. Dean could see him storm away, but just like a thunderstorm, he left puddles of doubt and anger and hurt in the motel room.

Dean fumbled on the bedside table for the motel stationary and a pen. Dean scratched out the words LAKEVIEW MOTEL— THE BEST PLACE TO STAY. And he wrote.

His pen soared across the page, words and words escaping the pen, writing until his hand hurt and then he kept on going. Dean kept writing until the blister forming on his right ring finger popped and bled on his pen. Dean threw the pen aside, wincing slightly. He read over his letter, frowning. Dean tried lock his exact words out of his head. He didn't want to remember them.

_Stupid. Why am I venting to some guy? Hell, why am I venting? Why am I upset? You know what? I'll just send it. Maybe it'll freak him the hell out and he won't write._

Dean grabbed for an envelope stashed in the back of the nightstand drawer, crammed the letter inside, and sealed it, his tongue flying over the sticky part until the edge of it sliced his tongue and he bled. It tasted like rust liquified. But he sealed the envelope, scrawled an address and a name, and went outside to find a mailbox and possibly Sam.

He walked towards a mailbox at the end of the block, and Sam's words kept bouncing around his skull, trying to break out and erase the memory of them. He didn't know which words he depised the most.


	4. Chapter 4

_Jimmy sat down on his_ bed, unexplainable excitement pulsing through his veins. He opened the letter, gently slicing it open with his thumb, took out the paper, and read.

This boy, this Dean, he was intriguing, from the words he wrote to the way he wrote. He talked about himself, about his life, words strung together like notes of a song. He wrote about a fight with his brother, and how he didn't want his younger brother to be so angry. Jimmy really hadn't expected this kind of letter. Maybe a short response, yeah, but nothing like this. Nothing so…. well, interesting. It made Jimmy almost ecstatic, and made him want to write back.

Jimmy spread out on his bed, wrinkling the neat navy bedspread, and read Dean's letter again. His eyes caught something he hadn't noticed before. Something was scrawled out at the top. He squinted, eyelashes flicking. It looked like a title, like the stationary didn't belong to Dean. Was Dean at a hotel? He frowned, the skin between his eyebrows creasing.

Well, that was a little strange, but who was Jimmy to critique strange? He went to a private/exclusive/religious school, for crying out loud, and hated his name.

Just as Jimmy was pondering this, a voice called for him, called for him by his full name. God, he hated it.

"Coming!" he called, but considered not opening the door this time and just barricading himself in with a letter from a boy he didn't know. Strange.

* * *

_Dean lay awake on _the hard motel mattress, thoughts jumbled and matted and all over the place. Sam still wasn't back, and he was getting worried. But Sam was just as stubborn, probably more stubborn, as Dad when he was pissed. And Dean had finally accepted that he _was _pissed.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and pursed his lips together, his light eyebrows knitting together, worry clouding his eyes. He'd never forgive himself if that kid got hurt. _Neither would John, _a little voice hissed in the back of his skull. He pushed it away, surprising anger flashing through him for the briefest of moments.

No, John _wouldn't. _Because he still acted like Sammy was five and Dean was his babysitter. _Things change, Dad. _Dean remembered Sam snapping at John with that sharp comment, edged with so much anger.

Dean stopped his train wreck of a thought process. It wouldn't help anything to be so angry. His thoughts drifted to Jimmy. What did the kid even think of him? Had he gotten Dean's letter? Maybe he'd tell his teacher Dean needed to go to an insane asylum. Fun. Dean tried to distract himself with different scenarios of Jimmy's reaction to his letter, but there was one possibility that he refused to consider.

Dean didn't know that possibility, that Jimmy was so excited to get his letter, had actually come true. Maybe Dean didn't consider this option because it was the one that made him happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**_this chapter is focusing on Dean and Sam, not Jimmy, so please be a little open-minded, all right?_**

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Dean was sleeping when he was woken up by the creak of the old motel door. The light turned on. He heard footsteps, and tensed up.

Dean yanked his sawed-off out from under his pillow, and aimed it at the figure in the room.

His little brother stepped back, hands going up and eyes widening. "Dean! Jeez! It's me!" Sam said frantically. Dean looked over at the clock. The green glowing numbers blared the time 4:21 A.M.

Anger and hurt burned through Dean's blood. "Didn't think I needed to know you were okay, huh? Or maybe you were having too much fun with your "friends"?"

Sam looked both ashamed and stubborn. "It wasn't like I needed to sleep." "You coulda called, Sam! You could've told me how late you were gonna be!" Anger flickered in Sam's hazel eyes. "Yeah, who made that rule? Dad. Dad's not here, Dean! Don't pretend that you've never stayed out late!" Blood rushed to Dean's cheeks, a blush illuminating his freckles.

"I have not!" He snapped. "Yeah? I remember one time you stayed out till 6 am. Yeah, you weren't exactly stealthy with the door." Dean felt his face grow hot as he remembered that time. He'd actually snuck out to meet a girl, one he'd really liked. Her name was Maya, he thought. Maybe. About two years ago, he remembered

. John would've been so angry if he'd found out. Dean had thought he'd been careful not to show anything, but he regretted sneaking out.

"Sam, look. So I made some mistakes, but I was hopin' you'd learn from mine!" Sam blinked, looking surprised, then regret slid into his hazel gaze, but quickly tried to mask it.

Dean just looked pretty tired, which sent a pang of regret through Sam's gut, but he wasn't sure he regretted going out, but maybe he regretted staying out so late. But Sam felt rage, built up from years of being told what to do and where to go and where to be by a father who was never there. Sam swallowed his pride, however— he didn't want to fight with Dean, Dean, who'd been there for him for a very long time.

Sam sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed." Dean opened his mouth, but quickly closed it, as he had no desire to fight with his younger brother anymore. He watched as Sam climbed into his bed, knocking off his shoes as he did.

Sam pulled the covers up, all the way to his chin, the way he had for a long time, and looked at Dean. Suddenly he was nine years old again, all big eyes and innocence.

"Goodnight, Dean," Sam said.

"Goodnight, Sammy."

As the light shut off, Dean closed his eyes, envisioning a happier place, one where he didn't have to be the one to scold his brother for being out late.


	6. Chapter 6

Jimmy sprawled on his bed with a pencil, chewing absentmindedly on the eraser, worry knitting his eyebrows together. He doubted Dean would welcome another letter.

He scrawled the words, Dear Dean on top of the paper.

Okay, Novak, he told himself. Just write something. Anything.

But Dean won't like it, he argued. Jimmy sighed, as he allowed himself to chicken out. He rolled off the bed, and padded barefoot to the window. He clutched the window sill so tightly his knuckles turned white.

What would Dean think of him if he knew?

Jimmy didn't have many friends. He supposed he was getting clingy over a boy who lived hundreds of miles away and had written him one letter.

He ripped open the window, anger flowing through him. Cold nipped at his nose, which didn't surprise him. It was March, after all, in Illinois.

Jimmy sighed, and raked a hand through his hair. Say anything, Novak. Say something, at least. Jimmy rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, sighing.

_Well, _he thought. _Maybe Dean won't like it, but, well, it is for a grade. I mean, I should write to him, shouldn't I? _

Jimmy padded back over to his bed, and grabbed his pencil, euphoria making him feel like he was flying. He was _excited, _he realized, and tried to push it down. Why, why would he get so excited over this boy, this boy he'd never met, this boy who he somehow liked, this boy who he could write to and would be one of the few to never ever know the bad things about Jimmy Novak.


	7. Chapter 7

Dad was home. Yes. John was home. Finally. Smelling of a different motel, his car's interior, and salt. At least he was okay, right? He hadn't gotten his guts ripped out by a ghost, so that was a plus.

Sam was in a foul mood, shooting John sour looks when he wasn't looking. Leaving wasn't an option for Sam. When their dad was home— no, back at the motel, Dean corrected himself— John liked both of them there. Well, at least he seemed in a slightly better mood.

At the moment, their dad was going through papers, and Sam was pretending to be asleep, clearly sandbagging, but Dean supposed John didn't really know how Sam slept. Or he'd be pissed about Sam trying to get out of it.

Dean ran a hand through his short hair, letting a quiet sigh escape his lips. John didn't miss it, even as he rustled through various newspapers, already looking for a new case.

He looked up, stubble peeking out along his jawbone, and Dean was close enough to smell faint whiskey on his breath. "Dean? Is something wrong?" He asked.

Dean shook his head, but his big fat mouth opened and he said, "Just wondering if you'd mind if I went for a walk." John frowned faintly, looking almost through Dean. "Sorry, son. Not today." Dean lowered his head, as usual, and he guessed that did it for Sam.

"Why do you talk to him like that?" Sam snarled, sitting up in the bed. "He's fifteen years old, not five." John looked shocked at being spoken to like that. He turned to look at Dean, then his face hardened, all the creases smoothing out, and whirled to face Sam. "You don't talk to me like that. You sound so ungrateful and—" Sam was now on his feet, almost snarling, up in John's face, and God, Dean thought, he really WAS tall.

"Grateful for what, exactly? Being stuck in a motel room all the time? Is that what I'm supposed to be happy about? Or maybe it's leaving my friends?" Before John could spit out a response, Dean backed out the door, slammed it, locked out the argument. He ran down the street, feet feeling like they were slamming against the pavement. No. No. This wasn't happening. Sam was _arguing _with Dad. Didn't he know how dangerous that was? What if...

Dean swallowed hard. Shouldn't he go back? Stop Dad from... He shook this away. No. John wouldn't... not now. Not for a while now. Dean still felt a flicker of fear and uncertainty when John came in the room. And it was just Dean. He'd never told Sam about it, not about the bad stuff, no. Dean staggered down the sidewalk, unsteady on his feet.

No. No bad stuff. The bad stuff was in the past. But he still felt like he'd swallowed pieces of glass, glass jostling in his stomach and jabbing him from the inside. Dean stumbled to a stop, hand reaching out to grab onto the nearest object. His vision was blurring, hazing, and he just didn't know what was wrong.

Well, at least he found out what was right.

There was a letter stuck to the mailbox, this public mailbox, a letter in a scrawl that said _Dean Winchester, _a letter for him, a letter from Jimmy. Somehow, like a miracle, as if God smiled down on him, his vision cleared, the glass dissipated, and he was okay again.

Dean didn't believe in Heaven, but if he did, he probably would've called Jimmy a gift from God.


	8. Chapter 8

**I apologize for how long this took to update. I was pretty busy with my homework and I got distracted by some other ones that I'm writing, but I won't publish them until they're done. Please r&r. **

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_Jimmy lay awake_ on his bed. Silence cloaked the air. Just silence. Jimmy liked the quiet, usually. But not now. He had a friend, almost. But now it was like Dean was ignoring him. He'd sent the letter two weeks ago. Jimmy gnashed his teeth into his chapped lower lip. It's your fault, Novak, he accused himself. You said you only wanted one letter and now you're getting pushy and possessive. He's just a boy. Just a boy who's the only person who listens.

_Stop it,_ he reprimanded himself. _You've never even met him! And now you're thinking about him almost 24/7! You only know his name!_ An annoying little voice in Jimmy's head whispered, _Yeah, and about his whole life. _Jimmy shoved this away. This train of thought was going nowhere good. He had to derail it before he made the mistake of thinking something he'd really regret.

Jimmy watched the blades of the fan swirl the air in his room, and sighed. He should sleep. He should sleep and cease the thoughts of this boy he didn't know but was still getting overly attached to. _Really_ overly attached to. He didn't even know if Dean would count him as a friend, much less would he say he was... No. Jimmy wouldn't name it. Names had power. He didn't even know what this boy looked like.

Jimmy twisted his hands in the thick comforter. His mind was wide awake, which irked him. The longer he was awake, the more personal his thoughts became. With every second that passed, the more his mind questioned his heart.

He particularly hated that flaw. Jimmy was supposed to be a good son. He was supposed to have unshakable faith. Then along comes Dean Winchester, here to jumble Jimmy's thoughts and to make him question his life for once. Jimmy rubbed his eyes. He used to be confident in his loneliness and in his beliefs. Well, the first one got blown to hell, and the second one currently wasn't far behind. It made Jimmy feel so guilty. But it was his life, right? He should be able to do whatever he wanted with it.

Jimmy rolled over and pressed his face into his pillows, feeling the air escape from the fabric. He let out another sigh. It wasn't because of Dean. It couldn't be. After all, that would imply that Jimmy was... that he was in...


	9. Chapter 9

**wHAT THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! This fic has the most story follows and favorites and reviews out of any of mine! I was super anxious about this fic because I was sure no one would like it much but *hysterically hiccuping* YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST! **

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_Dean paced the new_ motel room, cabin fever pawing at the inside of his head, listening to the thunder and the patter of raindrops outside the window. Dean didn't like moving. Not one bit. Motels were universally crappy. But they always had to. After all, it was for the best, right?

But guilt had settled in Dean's gut and was staying there as long as he didn't write to Jimmy. He promised himself he would as soon as his dad left. But John wasn't leaving for another week, and it had already been two. Dean felt positive, though. There'd been no sign of the bad stuff happening from John. It gave Dean some hope, which was quickly crushed by the reminder that Jimmy probably hated him now. What kind of a guy spills his soul onto notebook paper and then ignores you? Dean told himself. You're being an ass. Dad wouldn't know, anyway. Right?

He ran a hand through his hair. Jimmy could wait. He was fine with waiting, Dean assured himself. He gets that I'll write when I can, right? Or maybe he just thinks you're a dick. Dean sighed. The argument had been raging in his head since John got home and he ran outside. Sam had been kind of nosy about it, but Dean just lied yet again and told Sam he just felt a bit sick.

Dean was tired of lies.

Everything he'd ever had was a lie besides Sam. And even now he had to look his brother in the eye and tell him he was all right. He was pretty much thanking God Sam was sleeping and not glaring at John, who was currently outside, going through his trunk to make sure he had everything. Dean wondered if he'd say goodbye.

He doubted it. Of course, he'd been having doubts a lot since he read Jimmy's letter. It had surprised him, really. Jimmy didn't write, _You are a crazy person please stop writing to me and preferably go get a therapist._

Actually, it was rather like Jimmy was Dean's therapist. He was actually pretty cool about it, offering suggestions, but not overly helpful. He decided he really liked this guy. Maybe a bit too much.

He looked up as the front door opened. John stepped in, soaking wet, dripping onto the cheap carpet. He slammed the door shut behind him, and moved quickly to the desk. He'd forgotten the journal, and scooped it up, looking relieved. That thing was probably more precious to him than... Dean angrily pushed that thought away. It was stupid to think.

John yanked open the door, but paused. "See you, son. You know the rules, right?" Dean blinked, feeling his spine involuntarily stand up straighter. "Yes, sir." John nodded, and that little symbol of approval made Dean's whole body stand up straighter, craving that his father was happy with him, eager to gain more approval.

It was like a drug, Dean's drug, and he just couldn't get enough of it. He didn't understand; why didn't Sam feel this way? It made him feel like a freak when Sam's puzzled gaze pierced him from across the room, when Sam shouted at their dad, when John seemed to favor Sam more even though he wasn't the one high on approval.

Dean listened to the door shut, and kept replaying it in his head like a broken CD. He only stopped when a spare thought about Jimmy trickled in and woke him up, like an electric shock vibrating through his body and his mind. He slid into a chair and snatched a pad of pen and paper off the nightstand.

_Dear Jimmy._

And Dean wrote down words, nearly meaningless words, to replace the warm feeling inside of his gut that mere words couldn't describe.


	10. Chapter 10

_Jimmy jolted from_ a daze. He sighed. Daydreaming. Again. Enough already, he told himself. He just kept thinking about another little envelope showing up with his name written in small print with the letters mashed together. Stop, Jimmy thought. He's just a boy. Just an amazing boy. Good God...

He can only utter the Lord's name in vain in his head, but he nearly slipped up yesterday. Whoops.

He straightened up in his chair, attempting to look like he was paying attention. He already knew the Bible front to back; he didn't understand why he had to still take Bible Study. Jimmy rubbed at the back of his neck, scolding himself mentally.  
It was stupid to be thinking about Dean. Just stupid. Dean probably didn't even want to talk to him. _And anyway,_ he thought, _it'd only be the third letter, Novak. You're so overly attached to people._

But Jimmy couldn't help smiling. Dean didn't know about his flaws. Dean didn't know him in real life. He could be anyone he wanted. He could be himself. He could be Jimmy Novak. Everyone always said freedom came with a cost, that it was a length of rope, and God wanted you to hang yourself with it. So far, there was no cost. No reprimanding. Just wide open opportunities, and Jimmy felt high on it. He'd never been high before. It was new, and it was exhilarating.  
He barely even registered the bell ringing before he got up and raced out of the classroom, down the halls, towards the front door. He didn't live too far away; Jimmy walked home each day.

He made it to his mailbox in record time. Jimmy was a runner, but he didn't normally push himself very hard. He ripped open the box and fumbled inside before taking hold of the post and pulling it out. Bills, a magazine his mother read, and— a white envelope, in small, cramped handwriting, in Dean's handwriting.

He raced down the sidewalk, towards his house, clutching the envelope in his palm, euphoria bolting through his body, and he smiled. Freedom must be some sort of drug. And Jimmy was the newest junkie.


	11. Chapter 11

**Kisses to SupernaturalFandom108 for the Illinois hunt idea because I mean that was pretty dang awesome and you rock  
More kisses to family-and-free-will for consistently reviewing and awesome stories and not thinking my stuff is as lame as it actually is  
THROWS A CROWN AT SKY OF STARS BC SHE IS FORCING ME TO KEEP GOING GO BE A QUEEN ALREADY I MEAN JEEZ**

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_For Dean, there_ wasn't any room to be disappointed right now. Excitement overflowed him, to the point where he was smiling like an idiot and Sam kept asking him what he was so happy about.

John was back. He'd found a new hunt, and was taking them with him. To Illinois. Jimmy lived in Pontiac. Dean could definitely sneak out and see him. As soon as he heard, he stayed up late, writing to Jimmy in a flurry of euphoria that mirrored Jimmy's apparent own. Jimmy's words had sounded relieved. Did he expect Dean to not write back like some kind of asshole?

Dean chewed on his pen cap and glanced out the Impala window. Sam was sulking currently. He and John had had another screaming fight while Dean went to go pick up some food. Secretly, Dean was relieved he hadn't been there to stop it. The only way those two could have any peace was to duke it out.

The stupid smile grew bigger, like a disease without a cure, as he put the letter in an envelope. He managed to grab some hotel stationary before they left.  
He scrawled down Jimmy's address, and quietly peeled off a stamp before sticking it to the envelope. He didn't know the address of the motel, but he didn't want to wait. Didn't matter, really.

The Impala pulled to a stop at a gas station. John twisted around, and Dean quickly stuffed the letter away. "Gonna grab some gas, okay? Be right back." He got out and closed the door. Dean turned in a very uncomfortable way to try and see a mailbox.

Yup. He spotted one across the street. Dean scrambled out of the car before Sam could ask him what he was doing. He didn't care if Sam figured it out, which he probably would in a second. Dean sprang across the asphalt, eyes on the mailbox.  
He nearly fucking got hit by a car. Jimmy totally owed him one for that. Dean ignored the blaring of the horn and made it to the mailbox without a piano falling on his head. He was pretty damn happy about that, because it just seemed like his luck couldn't get worse.  
He crammed the letter in the slot, and stepped back, satisfied. He turned and came face-to-face with John. "What are you doing?" His dad demanded in a cold voice. "I— I was—" Dean fumbled for a believable lie. "I forgot to get rid of the credit card. I broke it and stuffed it in there," he said. He almost didn't feel guilty for lying. He'd never lied to his dad before.

John's eyes were hard, but he didn't know Dean's lying faces. "That's what Dumpsters are for, son. Not mailboxes." Dean glanced away. "Yessir. Sorry." That got the John Winchester Seal of Nearly-Approval. His dad walked away. Dean let out a puff of relief. His sort-of friendship with Jimmy was safe. At least for now.

"Dean!" His dad barked. "Let's go!" Dean bounded across the street and made it into the car in under four seconds, but his dad still shot him a "you're-late" look through the rearview mirror. Dean actually didn't care. Though he wasn't so comfortable with Sam's peaked-interest look. Dean nearly prayed that Sam wouldn't make the connection as the engine purred and they pulled out of the parking lot with a loud squealing of tires.


	12. Chapter 12

_Jimmy stared in horror_ at the letter sprawled on his desk like a death sign. No. No, he couldn't be. Panic replaced the horror in an abrupt wave.

Dean Winchester could not be coming to Illinois to see him.

He liked Dean, he really, really liked Dean, but— this wasn't supposed to happen! Dean wasn't supposed to actually see him, or actually talk to him!

You're being childish, one part of him scolded. He's probably just a nice guy.  
_So what?!_ Jimmy argued back. _It doesn't matter! Once he sees me, once he sees who I am, he won't like me. Nobody does. He likes Jimmy. I can't be Jimmy to him if he can see the fact that my flaws are worn upon my sleeve and I can't get them off. _

He took a shaky inhalation, as he reached for a pen and a new sheet of paper. Dear Dean. He wrote out a lame excuse, and stared at it so long that his eyes started to ache. Jimmy crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket, some form of deep anger throbbing inside. He _should_ be able to see Dean. He wants to. But he can't. He knows he can't. Because what if he sees... what if...?  
Jimmy tried to calm his racing heart. What if he was already HERE?

No, Jimmy reassured himself. It would be a few days, and anyway, his parents will have to come with him, right? It's not like he's just going to climb in the window in the middle of the night, right?  
Jimmy relaxed, and reached out for a new piece of paper.

* * *

_Dean knew he should regret_ seeing his dad drive away, but he didn't. He knew he would normally be upset that John didn't even say goodbye, but he wasn't.

Actually, he grinned, and turned to Sam. "Hey, Sammy, you wanna go get milkshakes or something?" Sam's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "We never do that. Dad says—" Dean laughed, making Sam jump. "Since when do you listen to Dad?" He reached out and ruffled Sam's hair, which he hadn't done since he was fourteen. Sam stared. Apparently, good moods were surprising.

"Well... yeah, I do," Sam replied after hesitating for a few seconds. He allowed a smile. It was written all over his face that he wondered whether Dean was being serious or not.

"Well, let's go then, Sammy!" Dean's smile grew even bigger. He reached out to ruffle Sam's hair again but he ducked and laughed. Dean unlocked the door and opened it wide.

The smile didn't fade from his face as he walked down the sidewalk with an arm slung across his brother's shoulder, listening to Sam hesitantly start talking, until he seemed to burst through his quiet façade in a bright ray.

It didn't fade when he walked in the diner, or when they sat down at the table. Dean could see Sam looking at him over the menu.

"Dean?" Dean glanced up. "Yeah?" Sam licked his lips anxiously and his eyes darted away. "Can... Can I ask you something?" His younger brother's thumbnail picked at the edge of the menu. "Well, spit it out," Dean said. Sam blinked a couple times and took a very deep breath.

"Who's Jimmy?"

Dean froze, his heart pounding against his rib cage. How did he know? Dean had tried so hard to keep Jimmy's letters hidden. What if he'd told his dad? John would be so, so _pissed_. More pissed than he had for a long, long time.

Dean wasn't about to bullshit his brother with "Oh, who's that?" He leaned across the table as if John were there and hissed, "How do you know?"

Sam kind of blushed a little. "Uh... I kinda found a letter you wrote... and you told him how excited you are to go see him... That's what you mailed, isn't it? To Jimmy?"

Dean felt his cheeks go hot, and his defenses rose. "Maybe," he retorted. "It's not your—"

The waitress came over. "Can I get you boys anything?" She popped her bubblegum.  
"Milkshakes," Sam said. She looked at him curiously. "Uh, I'd like a chocolate one," Dean offered, prompting Sam to remember that there were multiple types of ice cream. "Oh. Oh! I'd like a chocolate, too," Sam mumbled, embarrassed. "Okay," she said with a smile. "No problem." The waitress walked off towards the kitchens, heels clacking the floor.

Sam's eyes moved back to Dean's, and they were hurt. "Who is he? I just wanted to know, please?" Dean searched for the word to describe him. "A friend," he said finally. "Jimmy's my friend." "I won't tell Dad," Sam promised.

And suddenly the smile, which had faltered, was back. "Thanks, Sammy." Two tall glasses of streaked chocolate ice cream with melting whipped cream were set in front of them. Sam's eyes widened. He looked like a kid in a toy store. He reached for his spoon and dug in like he'd never been fed before. Dean watched him as he sucked on his straw, trying not to laugh. Ice cream was getting everywhere. Sam finally resurfaced.

"Thi'th ith the beth thin' ever!" He cheered. Dean couldn't help it. He laughed. Ice cream surrounded Sam's lips and a dollop of whipped cream was splashed on his nose. "N-need a napkin, Sammy?" Dean finally sputtered out. Sam caught sight of himself in the window reflection and stifled his laughter. "Y-yeah. Probably." He snatched one and wiped his face with it, eyes darting to the window to make sure he didn't have any more smears.

They made it through their milkshakes in a solid seven minutes. And that was even talking. Just random stuff, really. About how Sam had to go to new school, hunts, law— Sam brought that one up— even about new movies, even though there usually wasn't enough fake money on the fake credit cards to spare for anything like that. He supposed Sam hadn't ever had a milkshake before. No. Wait. He hadn't. Ever. John thought they were a waste of money, and always got so angry, but Dean didn't know why.

They took their own sweet time getting back to the motel, and by that time it was pretty dark. The cheap clock on their room wall informed them that it was 10:35— way earlier than they usually slept, but Sam did have school in the morning. Dean checked his gun, making sure it was loaded before he put it underneath his pillow.  
That smile had only faltered. Never left his face. Didn't leave now, as he lay faceup in the bed, listening to Sam toss and turn as he slept. The smile seemed like it was superglued to his face. He wasn't even trying to peel it off.

Though the grin was finally starting to hurt his face. Didn't matter much, though.

He'd get to see Jimmy, finally, finally, tomorrow.


	13. Chapter 13

_Dean's whole day was spent_ trying to work up the nerve to go see Jimmy. All his confidence from last night had disappeared, and panic fluttered through his chest.

What if Jimmy didn't even want to see him? No reply letter yet. He hoped Jimmy had gotten the letter.

He hadn't told Sam it was today that he was going, but Dean would bet money, if he had any to spare, that Sam knew. He kept glancing over as he watched shitty daytime TV, worry knitting his eyebrows together.

Dean just lay on the bed, staring at the minutes tick by on the clock. It took him nearly all day to sit up suddenly. "I'm going," he said, his voice surprisingly loud in the room. Sam jumped. "O-okay, Dean." "Sam," he said firmly. "Are you okay with being here?" "Yeah, I guess." Dean rolled off the bed, grabbing his green jacket off a chair. His brother rolled to his feet. Dean clasped a hand on his shoulder.

"Sam," he repeated, looking directly into his little brother's eyes. "If something happens to you, I will never forgive myself." Sam looked surprised at his intensity, but he nodded. "I'll be careful, Dean. Just... make sure you are too." "All right," Dean said. "See you, Sammy." "Bye, Dean." Dean closed the door behind him, and looked back. Sam waved from the window as Dean walked towards the road, hands in his pockets.  
A few hours later, his legs were aching and he felt like Pontiac was still a million miles away. Sure, an hour by car, but Dean didn't have one. He pulled a hand out of his pocket and pointed with his thumb as an SUV drove by. He sighed in exasperation. It was getting dark soon.

He tried his hitchhiking luck with a semi, and miraculously succeeded. The guy gestured to him to come around. Dean jumped in. "Son, you're awfully young to be hitchin' a ride," the guy said. He was old, probably in his sixties, with an unshaven face, short white hair, and brown eyes. Dean didn't answer at first.

"Yeah, I guess. No car, though." "Well, where to?" "Pontiac," Dean responded. "Ah. Bit outta my way, but..." "Don't wanna trouble you," Dean answered quickly. He didn't exactly trust this guy, but he did, he admitted to himself, need a ride. "No trouble, son. Really," the man insisted. Dean hesitated. "Okay."

The semi lurched forward and suddenly, he was going towards Jimmy so much faster. Dean glanced out the window at the smudged landscape. He wanted to lean back and relax, but he couldn't. He was too excited.

* * *

_Jimmy reached across his bed _to turn off his lamp. He was tired, and anxious. He had barely slept the last few nights. Jimmy was getting really, really worried. Dean had had plenty of time to get to Illinois. What if he did come? One part of him chanted yes, yes, yes, and the other, more logical, argued. What if he finds out? How are you going to pretend in front of your parents, Jimmy?

He tried to push these thoughts away. He just wanted to sleep. Jimmy rolled over, but it was still uncomfortable. It felt like he was being poked in the back, as usual. He could never get comfortable in his bed.

Jimmy went to sleep with thoughts of Dean drifting through his head, emotions a jumbled swirl, as he wondered vaguely what Dean might be doing.

* * *

_As irony would have it, Dean was_ running for his life. Well, not really. Though he didn't doubt that mean Pinscher could rip through his leg.

He heaved himself over a fence, gasping for breath as he heard the sharp barks of the animal get closer and closer.

Dean fell in the yard, dashing up to the house as the barks get louder and louder. He didn't know if it's Jimmy's house and didn't care. He scrambled up the building. A window was open on the second story. The lights were off. Perfect.

He tumbled in with a loud thump, breathing heavily, feeling the blood from clawing his way up the bricks trickle from his hands.

Something rustled, and Dean moved just in time to see the glint of metal and to catch the bat in his hands before it cracks open his skull.

"Jesus Christ!" He hissed. "I'm not stealing anything, God, ow." The light is flicked on, and a boy stood in front of him. He couldn't be older than Dean. Dark hair, skin around the same shade as Dean's, with intense blue eyes that unsettled Dean. Soft, chapped lips and a sculpted jaw that's currently clenched. He's shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but black shorts.

Dean squinted up at the sudden light. "Get out," the boy snapped. "I'm trying to sleep. I can and will hit you with this bat again." Dean scrambled up, shaking off the blood on his fingers. "Okay, okay, jeez," he grumbles. "And don't say the Lord's name in vain so loud, my parents will hear you," the boy added, as if to point out another problem. "Ha! You sound like you're—" Dean stopped. He rubbed the back of his neck.  
"Wait, uh, question?" The boy raised the bat a few inches. "Okay, okay, I'll go. I just... one thing. Uh, you wouldn't happen to know a, um, Jimmy Novak in this neighborhood, would you?" The boy's eyes widened. "Dean?" He asked. The bat falls to the floor with a clunk.

"Whoa, whoa, wait. You're Jimmy? You just tried to hit me with a baseball bat, man!" "You just climbed in my window! How was I to know it was you?" Dean wiped off some of the blood on his jeans. Jimmy took notice. "You're hurt." Apparently on instinct, Jimmy turned to grab something off his desk. Dean stepped back and let out a gasp. Jimmy... he had... he...

Jimmy quickly turned back around, backing away from Dean. "Go, Dean. Now. Just go." He threw a roll of bandages at him, what he must've turned around for. "No." "Go, Dean! Leave me alone!" Jimmy nearly shouted. He reached for the light, as if that could make Dean forget.

"Dude, it's fine." Why did Dean say that? It wasn't fine. It wasn't normal. But Jimmy was his friend. Dean wasn't just gonna give up on him. Not now. Not when he just met him.

Tears welled in Jimmy's eyes. "That wasn't enough to scare you off? Fine. Try this. I lied. My name's not Jimmy. Or James. It never was. My name's Castiel. Castiel Novak."

* * *

_"See? Like my name didn't _make me enough of a freak. So I get this." He gestured bitterly at his back.

Dean was quiet for a while, just looking at Castiel. Tried to decide what to do. It agonized Jimmy. Most would've climbed right back out the window and never come back.

"Say something!" Jimmy yelled, tired of waiting. "Say you hate me, call me a freak, a liar, an abomination. Something!" Dean stepped forward, and Jimmy flinched. Dean didn't push or shout or laugh.

"Can I see them?" He asked. Jimmy forgot how to breathe. Dean was very close. He was violating Jimmy's personal space, almost. Jimmy wanted to laugh. Still thought of himself as Jimmy, not Castiel. It was so simple. An easy name. An easier lie. Until now.

"I promise, I won't do anything. I just want to see them." No one has ever asked to see them. His friendships have never gone this far. Jimmy turned, and he spread his wings for a human boy to see.

* * *

_Jimmy was waiting for the shouts _of "FREAK!" still, but they didn't come. What did come shocked him even more. Fingers on his wings, trying to touch each feather.  
"Dude," Dean breathed, oddly close to Jimmy. "This is awesome. They're... they're beautiful. Why didn't you tell me, Cas?" Jimmy frowned. What did he call him? He asked the question out loud.

"Well, uh, you didn't like Castiel, and it's easier to say... I don't know, man. If you don't like it..." "No. No. It's... fine." More than fine, he'd say. This is amazing. Dean was not angry at him. He didn't mind his name. He... he didn't even mind his wings. Real wings. Physical wings. And it didn't even seem to bother him.

Cas turned around, tentatively. "Dean?" He asked. Dean's eyes were full of wonder, and Cas was astonished by how green they are. He wanted to just memorize every inch of Dean's handsome, freckled face. He doesn't. "Yeah, Cas?" "Are we... are we still friends, or are you just pranking me?" Dean smiled, and Cas thought he'd never seen anything more perfect. "No joke, Cas. We're good." "Even though—?" Dean laughed. "I know how hard this is to believe, but, uh, I've seen weirder than wings." Cas smiled.


	14. Chapter 14

_Cas didn't sleep that_ night, something his sore wings were grateful for. He and Dean just sat together on the bed. They didn't talk much, but he could tell Dean was curious. Sometimes he'd find Dean absentmindedly brushing his wings with his fingers, as if he needed to feel each soft grey feather. He didn't mind a bit; no one had ever touched them so gently. So kindly. Dean was mesmerized by them, like they were some sort of beautiful gift, instead of the curse they really were.

He had been able to see the questions flitting through Dean's eyes. Luckily, Dean had dozed off and fallen back on Cas's bed with a soft flop. Cas decided not to wake him up. But Cas was close enough to see the rise and fall of Dean's chest, to see the flutter of breath against his lips. He was still mesmerized by his face.

Full lips, almost like a girl's, strong jaw, freckles like stars in the night sky against Dean's pale skin, short light brown hair, and big eyes that were closed but he knew were so vibrantly green. He couldn't get over that. How just... astonishingly green. Cas swore that trees looked faded in comparison. Cas moved a little bit closer when Dean twitched and stirred in his slumber.

With his luck, Dean's eyes naturally flew open and Cas jerked back. Dean let out a quick yelp before realizing it was him. "Jesus! Cas, you scared me!" Cas knew he should look away, but was hypnotized by the flecks of gold and brown and paler shades of green in Dean's eyes. Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Uh, Cas? You're, uh, a bit close." That jolted Cas from his spell. "Oh. Yes. I'm sorry." He scooted away. Dean opened his mouth to say something but closed it quickly. He tried again.

"Um... your folks coming up soon?" Cas shook his head. "No. They wouldn't mind if I stayed up here forever." Bitterness tinged his words, and he didn't care. Dean should know he hated them up front. Hard not to when his parents treated him like he was a disease, not their son.

Dean blinked in surprise. "Yeah," he replied softly, "I know the feeling." His hand slid towards Cas's as he relaxed the tension in his muscles, making heat rush to Cas's cheeks and neck. Dean leaned all the way back down on the bed, and his hand fell on top of Cas's, which made him blush ever harder.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Your... your hand is nearly holding mine," he mumbled. Dean didn't move or open his eyes. "Is it?" he drawled out. "Yes," Cas replied. Was that... was Dean Winchester blushing? Cas couldn't tell.

"Is it purposeful, or should I move?" Cas decided to ask. He didn't know how this worked. Apparently, questions like that made Dean blush. "Uh... I guess it's up to you, Cas," he mumbled. Probably, he couldn't come up with anything else, but Cas did see his fingers twitch away a minuscule amount.

Cas looked away. "I'm not sure I would be... comfortable with holding hands, Dean. I just met you." Cas swore a flicker of something burst across Dean's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Dean licked his lips. "Okay, Cas," he answered. He let a laugh. "Well, I didn't really expect it. It was an accident, Cas. Didn't mean to."

Dean didn't mention holding hands any further, and Cas was only slightly doubting it was an accident. Eventually, Cas went downstairs to escape the awkward near-silence. He offered a weak greeting to his parents, which they didn't return, and he sat down at the table to eat and read. He enjoyed Dean's company, but he was worried that he just ruined it.

Cas was sure he couldn't focus on the writings of Stephen King, no matter how long he tried (and did he try). He managed to sneak some food into for Dean, then retreated back upstairs. It had been an hour or two since he'd left. Dean was sleeping on Cas's bed again, his cheek pressed into Cas's pillow, hair all mussed and clothes wrinkled.

"Dean." Cas nudged him, and he jolted awake. "Wha'? Huh? Cas?" Dean mumbled. "Yes, I... I brought you some food." He handed Dean a piece of pie still in the Tupperware. Dean popped it open and smelled. "Fuck, Cas. This looks awesome." He grabbed the fork and took a bite like he'd never eaten pie. Maybe he hadn't. Dean seemed awfully off, and it unsettled and intrigued Castiel.

Dean swallowed with a moan of pleasure, then licked his lips. "So, you don't wanna pick my brain, Cas?" Cas frowned. "Pick your..." "It means you don't wanna talk to me and, y'know, find out more about the mysterious Winchester?" He waggled his eyebrows and Cas nearly laughed.

"Well, yes, but after you finish the pie that you are eating like a barbarian." Dean smirked. "Well, probably because I haven't had it since—" He stopped talking abruptly. Dean's easy smile vanished. Cas knew that was not a good sign. "Since when?" He coaxed. Dean looked away, down at the Tupperware holding the remnants of the pie. "Since my mom died," he said softly.

Cas's heart swelled for the saddened look on Dean's face. "Dean, I—" he tried. "It's fine, Cas. Don't you say 'I'm sorry'. Don't you dare. Heard that too much from people who didn't mean it." He blinked rapidly, and glanced back at Cas. Pink crept in on his cheeks again. "Uh, Cas?" "Yes?" "You're still not wearing a shirt." Oh. Oh. Perhaps that was why Dean appeared so uncomfortable. He turned to grab a shirt, before he remembered.

"Shit," Cas hissed. Of all the struggles he had, of course the most embarrassing happened in front of Dean. "Dean?" "Yeah?" "Do you mind not looking?" Cas asked as he fumbled under the bed for it. For that stupid thing that reminded him that he was not normal and never would be and made him sore and of course made him remember that he was no true human.

* * *

Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. "Not looking at— oh." It crashed down on him like a wave when Cas pulled out a harness looking device. It must've been to hold his wings to his back. No wonder. It had taken Cas a while to get through that door and back. Why was he embarrassed? Well, Dean was definitely still embarrassed. He was pretty sure he involuntarily tried to make a move on Cas. Dude, he told himself, he's a guy, one, and two, you just met him and he tried to hit you with a bat and you're just hanging out in his room.

"Well, uh, I guess I could help, if you wanted?" Dean didn't sound sure of himself, he knew. Dean frowned. "But Cas, couldn't you just cut holes in your shirts?" Cas scowled as he fumbled with the thing. Dean didn't even know what it was. "I enjoy the whole world not knowing I'm a genetic freak, Dean," he answered almost curtly. "Would you please help me put this on? It's a little easier with some help, I would think."

Dean looped around Cas as he folded his wings in gingerly. "It's a gene thing?" Dean asked as he let his hands press Cas's wings. "Yes," Cas said as he opened the harness thing with a buckle. "I don't even know why. It shouldn't even be possible, all the doctors say, but I appear to have some sort of bird DNA." Cas passed the harness back to Dean. "Well, Cas, at least you don't have to tell people about personal space," Dean joked as he fastened it. "Not usually, anyway. Not when my wings are out." Damn, Dean thought, can this kid even laugh?

"Aw, shit," Dean grumbled as he realized something. "What is it?" Cas sounded worried. "Fuck. Uh, there's another buckle. Mind if I get it?" "No, why would I—" Dean's arms circled around Cas to fasten the buckle in the front. He did it quickly, trying not to freak over the fact that he was this close to a guy, a shirtless guy, that he was nearly hugging him, and that he was way, way too close.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas said quietly as he pulled on a shirt. Dean desperately tried to erase his memories of that, and as usual, resorted to humor. "Bet all the lady bird humans fawn over you, huh, Cas?" Cas reached out and punched him in the arm. "Ow! Okay, okay. Just kidding, Cas." Castiel shot him a look.

Dean cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably. "You ever gonna pick my brain?" Castiel frowned. "Pick your— oh. I suppose, if it's all right." Dean sat back down on the bed, feeling his leg muscles pop. "Yeah. Shoot." After all, it's not like Cas is just gonna—

"How did your mother die?" Oh. Okay. So that's how Cas rolls. Dean bit the inside of his right cheek. "In a fire." It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either. Cas plopped down next to him and squinted at him. His gaze softened. "Oh." "Cas, I don't want pity. I told you." "I know. It's difficult to not, you have to understand. I have no other impulsive reaction."

Dean wanted to laugh. One second he was Mr. Touchy-Feely-Yoga-Crap, now he was a smartass robot, almost. Like he'd swallowed a dictionary. Dean voiced this and Cas socked him in the shoulder again. "Ow! Damn, you hit hard, Cas."

"Do I get to ask any other questions, or are you never going to stop antagonizing me?" "Sassy, aren't you, Cas? Yeah. Next question." Cas was quiet for a few moments, thinking. His next question made Dean's heart stop. "Have you ever been in love?"


	15. Chapter 15

_Cas looked worried as _the seconds just ticked by. "Dean, you don't have to—" "No, it's okay. No, Cas. I've never been in love," he admitted. He frowned. "Why'd you ask that? You a hippie, Cas?" "I—? What? No. No, I'm not a hippie. It was simply a question." He blinked a couple times, eyes fixated on Dean's face.

Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Okay, uh, next question. Please don't let it be, 'Are you for animal rights?'" Cas punched him in the arm again. "Again? Jesus, Cas. Ow. I get that I'm an asshole, but punch somewhere else, okay?"

"No. Next question. What's your father like?" Dean bit his lip. Wow. Cas really DOES roll like that.

"Um, he's cool. He travels a lot, for work. Me and Sammy don't see much of him." Cas looked at him. "You're lying," he declared. "Wh-what?" Cas leaned forward— a rather uncomfortable amount forward— and scrunched up his eyes. "I'm no fool, Dean. You're lying to me. Not about everything, but some of that was a lie."

Great. Cas is a lie detector, too.

Dean carefully cleared his throat. He was a good liar. "Why would I lie to you, Cas?" Cas squinted at him. "I don't know. But you're avoiding the inevitable fact that you did lie to me." Dean swallowed. Well, damn. It was gonna be pretty hard to lie to a basically human lie detector. A human lie detector with bird wings, no less.

What did he even say, to squint-faced Cas, who had mistrust ebbing off of him in waves? He wanted Cas to trust him. To just know if he didn't tell him something, it's for his own good. How did he shape those words, even?

"Dean?" Cas was looking at him, the squint gone, but the mistrust still lingers. His eyes were wide and almost... sad. He needed to stop looking like that before Dean crumbled under his gaze and confessed everything, every deep, dark, and dirty secret that he had.

Dean didn't answer, and frustration marred Cas's face. "Damn it, Dean. Do I have to find out for myself?" He demanded. "It's not important, Cas," he said softly, hands digging into the comforter. Cas looked hurt, and Dean really, _really_ felt like a total asshole.

"Fine," Cas muttered, looking upset. "Since we're playing Twenty Questions, next one is, why did you lie to me? Dean, damn it, just tell me. What could be so bad that—"

"Cas, just _stop."_ The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. "It's just... It's my bad stuff, okay? It's mine and I don't wanna tell you. Just don't..." Dean trailed off, stopped himself before he could say anything stupid. Well, stupider.

Cas's face scrunched up in anger. "What could possibly be SO bad that you can't even tell me? I told you everything about me. I let you in. And even if you don't think so, if you don't consider me so, I am your friend, still, despite your lack of faith in me. And one little secret you can't even— I— I'm sure I can understand, why won't you—"

**"No, Cas, you CAN'T UNDERSTAND. You have NO IDEA what it's like, to have to be good, to have to be the perfect son, to wait and wait for approval and NEVER GET IT. You just don't care, but I HAVE TO. Do you know what it's like, to take a beating from your own FATHER? Your role model? The guy you have to want to be? Who you looked up to? And I only wanted to PROTECT Sam, to be GOOD, and nobody can ever understand. Nobody!**" He shouted.

Silence. Only silence could meet his words. A hand touched his back, when the long stretch of silence stopped. "Dean, I—"

A knock on the door. Dean's eyes widened and he scrabbled his way off the bed. "Castiel? What are you doing up here? What's this racket? We told you to keep it down."

"Nothing, it's nothing! I apologize, I... I fell and I yelled." Dean rolled under the bed with a thump. Castiel winced. "Castiel! What are you doing?" "Nothing!" "Terrible liar," Dean grumbled from his rather uncomfortable position under the bed.

The door opened and Dean could see a pair of shoes move past the bed. "Is someone in here with you?" A man's voice demanded. "No. Why would you think that? How could they even get in? Through the window?" Dean chuckled inwardly. Yep. Through the window, all right.

Dean heard the man huff. "Fine. I was only... concerned." Dean nearly snorted. Yeah, right. The guy sounded like he had swallowed a board, he was so stiff. It pissed Dean off, but at least he didn't have to face Cas after... God, why did he have to spill the beans? He'd never told anyone. Not Sam. Nobody. Ever.

The door slammed closed and Cas sighed. "It's fine now, Dean." Dean rolled back out from underneath the bed and stood up, quickly brushing off the dust bunnies. "I'm going," he said, hating himself for the words. Cas blinked, looking hurt. "What?"

"I need to get back to Bethany," he answered. "Sam's by himself." Cas reached for his arm and grabbed hold just as Dean went for the window. "Dean, look, I—" "Save it, Cas," he snapped, deepening his own self-hatred, but he'd always run away. Just like Dad. Like Sam had, just a few years ago.

"Dean, please—" "Bye, Cas. I'll see you." And he jumped out the window, wondering the whole way down if what he'd done was forgivable. Probably not.

Every step of his way back was hate hate hate hate how could you hate hate hate how could you do that to Cas hate hate hate hate you deserve all the hate he can muster hate hate hate hate HATE.

He nearly broke open the door when he finally made it back to his shithole motel room. Sam leaped up, gun in hand, and quickly dropped it, looking relieved. "You're back! Are you okay? How was he?" Dean pulled his brother into a one armed hug. He didn't answer. Sam was good at telling when he was lying. He didn't need to be called a liar again. Otherwise his dirty rotten secret might come pouring out, and then everything else he had would come crashing down.

* * *

**Yeah yeah you all hate me for this chapter I hate myself for this chapter lets join in the Charley Hatred Club but hey theres more to come would you mind reviewing thank you :D**


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